


Star Wars: Episode I - Rule of Three

by Stuffgeist



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-05-27 22:11:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15034406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stuffgeist/pseuds/Stuffgeist
Summary: The galaxy is in turmoil!Rogue planets have formed a separatist coalition with the aim of seceding from the Galactic Republic. The separatists, unable to stand toe-to-toe against the might of the Republic Army, have instead opted to wage guerrilla warfare in what has become known amongst the populace as “The Clone War.”Against this backdrop Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi, and his padawan learner, are flung into a world of violence and intrigue as they search for the origins of the separatist clones in a bid to bring peace to the galaxy.





	1. Chapter 1

**1.**

The sun winked from behind the Senate Building on the horizon of Coruscant, the city-planet. Atop a domed roof crafted of Kodan glass that held as strong as steel, overlooking Senate Plaza, Obi-Wan Kenobi sat steeped in the Force.

His training had ended abruptly two cycles earlier when his Master, Qui-Gon Jinn, had been killed in a trade dispute on the otherwise unremarkable planet of Naboo. Qui-Gon had been a great man, and a great Jedi. He had repelled an entire droid army from the Royal Palace of Naboo for six days straight, and with nothing more than a small, rag-tag crew of starpilots.

Qui-Gon's example had served Obi-Wan with two lessons that he held close to his heart like a cold shard of glass. A Jedi never capitulates, but even a Jedi has their limits.

In the end the droids, untiring and unrelenting, had breached the Palace. Qui-Gon, whose strength had faltered after a hundred sleepless nights and grinding days of fighting, had bundled Obi-Wan into a starfighter alongside a pilot named Lef Lars. Obi-Wan remembered the tenderness that had still resided in Qui-Gon's dark- ringed eyes as he had looked into them for the last time. Qui-Gon had kissed him on the forehead.

“You have been like a son to me, Obi-Wan.”

The last words he would ever hear from the greatest man he had ever known. Qui-Gon was summarily executed hours later – a blaster bolt to the skull. They could not hope to stand against him with a lightsaber in his hand, so they chose for him an inelegant end.

He had been brought before the assembled Jedi Council the very next day and his braid, the symbol of a padawan learner, had been shorn even against his cries of protestation. Ever since he had refused to cut his hair.

His sandy brown locks hung down to his jawline, where a scruff of beard was now growing in patchily. With his hand he swept the hair from his face, then exhaled deeply, and opened his eyes to see the pattern of the Force. Thin, trembling roots of light spread out before him, intertwining here and there. Some of the roots clutched at others, swollen and bruise-purple knots that strangled the presence of the Force around them – his brow furrowed, for he found these evidences of the Dark Side highly distasteful.

Though there was, perhaps, thirty feet between his vantage and the Plaza below, one light burned like a magnesium torch amongst the throng, made conspicuous by its strength in the Force. His own padawan learner.

Beings from a hundred-thousand systems packed the Plaza, such diverse life from every far-flung corner of the Republic that even Obi-Wan would have difficulty naming every species. His padawan had argued that Obi-Wan would be better equipped to deal with the current threat down among the people in the Plaza, but he was not one for crowds. He preferred quiet solitude, time to reflect on his own thoughts away from the intrusive minds of others; and so he had seen it as one of the great jokes of the Force's will that his life had become so entangled with a world like Coruscant – a city on which the sun could never set. Still, his padawan had been adamant that at least one of them should be down in the crowd, sensing for threats up-close; able to respond swiftly in the event of danger.

“Strong-willed, and impulsive, that one. A dangerous combination,” Obi-Wan muttered into a wind that reeked of ozone and speeder fumes.

“What was that, Master?” The comm was little more than a minute earbud resting in his ear, easy to forget, and yet the voice that came through it was as clear as if the speaker were standing next to him.

“Oh, blasted thing,” he heard a chuckle come from the other end of the line. As it subsided the voice came again, more serious now, all business.

“Do you sense that?”

“Nervousness? Yes, it's weak; buried within the excitement of the crowd. Do you have a better sense of it down there?”

“No, Master.”

“Stay sharp,” Obi-Wan said. “We have no idea where this attack could come from.”

“Or who,” added his padawan, ominously.

Chatter erupted across the crowd in visible ripples as Supreme Chancellor Sadeem Valorum strode onto the stage and took his place behind the podium. His posture was haughty, and even across the distance between them Obi-Wan could see that the man blazed in the Force.

 _The Jedi may be able to alter the minds of the weak-willed_ , thought Obi-Wan, _but politicians have a power all their own._

“What do you think of this guy?” Obi-Wan had to press a finger against the earpiece in order to hear the voice over the sudden roar of the crowd. “Do you really think he can end the Clone War?”

“I think he believes he can. I also think there are some things that go beyond words and sanctions.”

“Like the Force?” That raised a smile from him, just a small one, but very clear on his features.

“Like pride, youngling.” He smiled wider at the noise of disgust from the comm.

Chancellor Valorum stood with his hands raised to try and calm the crowd. Again, Obi-Wan was impressed by the spell of the politician as, almost as one, every being assembled in the Plaza fell still and silent. Valorum cast a ponderous, sweeping gaze across the crowd, as if trying to memorise every line of every face. Then he spoke.

The amplified sound carried all the way out to Obi-Wan's perch, as clear as if Valorum were engaged in conversation with him, even over the noise of the wind.

“Friends, a tumour has been allowed to fester at the heart of this Republic for too long, and now it threatens to swallow our way of life whole. The so-called Union of Separatist Worlds has moved to secede from our government; a move that would throw our economy, our worlds, our lives into utter chaos.

“When faced with this fact, and with the full weight of the Galactic Republic standing against their secession, the Separatists have responded with cowardly aggression. Unable to stand against the combined armies of the Republic they attack like sneak-thieves, using the lowest guerilla tactics their sordid minds can conjure.”

Whispering and murmurs burst through the crowd. Obi-Wan could see them turning to one another, their mouths working around a singular, repeated word. Valorum stood patiently, his hand clamped on the edges of the podium.

“What are they saying?” But he thought that he might be able to posit an accurate guess.

“Clones,” the comm chirped back. After a pregnant moment, Valorum captured the crowd again by speaking.

“That's right, friends,” he said. “Clones. The Separatists steal into the Republic, spiriting away valued members of our society, and replacing them with abominations. Sleeper agents at the heart of the Republic!” His voice rose wildly, as if he were losing all semblance of control over his emotions, but Obi-Wan was able to see it for what it was. This political trick was not quite so refined. Still, the crowd ate it up. They began to yell, thrusting up their fists in impotent rage.

“They're asking what he's going to do about it,” came the voice on the comm, pre-empting Obi-Wan's question.

“Friends, I have been clear that these Separatists,” Valorum spat the word out, “cannot be allowed to shake us from our mandate with fear. I made a promise to you all, to every world, that I would oppose these terrorists with an iron will. And so, I say enough! If the Separatists desire war, then we shall bring the war to them. The army of the Re-”

One of the men in the Chancellor's entourage, a bald, dark-skinned man, strode forward towards the Chancellor suddenly. A chill crawled across Obi-Wan's scalp and charged down his spine a mere second before the explosion.

“Pad-”

The blast sucked the air from his lungs and he choked on the word. The heat was extraordinary, it dried out his eyes and made them prickle until he was left squinting into the inferno. The concussion had nearly taken him off his feet, but the momentary warning had allowed him to steel himself – conjuring a little of the Force to aid him.

He looked out now on devastation. The flames dissipated to a thick column of black, oily smoke. Bodies had been scattered across the Plaza, some intact, others not. Some were char-blackened, others had merely been battered against the stones of the surrounding monuments.

_So much blood._

And down there, he knew, amid all the destruction was his padwan learner. Little more than a youngling, really.

His teeth clenched reflexively as he felt the salt sting of the tears rolling down his cheeks. He bit back the emotions as Master Yoda's lessons circled dizzyingly through his mind.

_Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering._

The mantra repeated in his mind, giving him clarity, and focus. He breathed in deeply, and exhaled his fear. Feeling his heartbeat steady and the balance of his mind return, he reached out to the Light of the Force and mustered every bit of strength it could provide. He took a couple of short steps backwards, then sprinted at the edge of the building.

As he leapt out into the air, free-falling across the divide between the building and the Plaza, a single word solidified in his mind.

_Alive._

He gathered the Force around him, slowed his descent just enough to not shatter every bone in his body with the impact, and as he hit the ground he was already striding into the smoke. He sensed something weak around where the stage had been, and allowed himself a moment of hope as he ran towards it.

The blast had brought the stage down, had reduced the podium to sticks of kindling that was now piled in a charred heap. Was it here? Life. He reached out with the Force, and the debris began to raise up seemingly of its own volition, hovering eerily.

He nearly lost control when he saw her. His heart twisted into a tight little knot as he saw her tiny form shielding the prone body of the Supreme Chancellor. Her tunic had been scorched away in patches, and the flesh beneath had blistered in angry, white bulbs. With a flick of his arms he scattered the debris to the four corners of the Plaza and threw himself towards her. He turned her over gently, and cradled her head in his lap, stroking her hair and praying to the Force for her life.

“Please, oh, please,” the words tumbled from his mouth rhythmically without his even realising it. Another mantra that brought him intense focus and clarity. She wasn't dead, she couldn't be dead. He hadn't been able to save Qui-Gon, and now her? The tears were blinding and hot in his eyes.

“M-Master?” He looked down at her pale face, into her rich, brown eyes. She was smiling up at him weakly, a smile that he couldn't help but return.

“Padme.”

“The Chancellor, is he safe?” Obi-Wan looked over at the form of the grey-haired man. He wasn't moving, but in the Force Obi-Wan could sense his life. It was weak, but he could recover.

“He'll be alright, youngling.”

“Saved him,” she managed, and her grin redoubled.

“That you did. That you did.”

“Told you one of us should be in the crowd.” He felt her life weaken suddenly, and forced himself to find Master Yoda's mantra once more.

_Fear is the path to the Dark Side._

“Today, the student has instilled a lesson in the Master.”

He brought himself under control, and held her closer. He held her like that as he heard the sirens of the med units approaching.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**2.**

“Unacceptable,” cried Supreme Chancellor Sadeem Valorum. The outburst brought a hacking fit of coughs. The politician bent double and clutched his ribs – his injuries had been few, in spite of the violence of the attack, but they had taken their toll on him. He was not a young man anymore.

“Saved, your life was, Chancellor,” said Master Yoda. Though the smallest of the Jedi Council in terms of height, his legend loomed large, and here in the Council Chambers he took pride of place at the centre of the other Jedi Masters. The reverence that each Jedi felt for the wizened being was almost palpable in the air of the small chambers. So too was his presence in the Force.

Master Yoda and Master Yaddle were members of a green-skinned race that was particularly adept at channelling the will of the Force. The mystery of their species, and the power which they wielded, gave both Masters an air of otherworldliness.

“ _My_ life, true,” the Supreme Chancellor was carrying an expensive looking walking cane, and he now gave it a small exclamatory bang against the stone floor. “But countless others have been lost because of the neglect of this Obi-Wan Kenobi. If the girl had not been there it is doubtful you would have even my life to show for your blunder.”

The silence in the chamber was deafening. Eventually a gruff voice cut through the moment.

“Do not lay this at the feet of Obi-Wan Kenobi, Chancellor.” Master Even Piell's head was lowered, but his large, bat-wing ears twitched in a way that even a youngling would be able to read as annoyance. “He is a trusted Knight of our Order, a personal friend, and I will not hear an unkind word said of the lad.”

“You have brought anger and blame to our doorstep, Chancellor.” Mace Windu's tone was soft and measured. His talent for the art of the lightsaber had been proven on countless worlds, against countless foes, but his skills in diplomacy left little to be desired. His strained efforts to keep emotions, unbecoming of his position on the Council, in check were clear to all around him. “A Jedi presence was requested at the Plaza, the Council acquiesc-”

“You _acquiesced_?” The venom dripped from the word as it left the Supreme Chancellor's lips. “May I remind you, _Master_ Jedi, that your Order is just another branch of the government which _I_ oversee. Your weaponised religion is tolerated because it is useful, and for no other reason. You did not acquiesce. You were given an order which you followed.”

“Enough.”

Supreme Chancellor Sadeem Valorum could not be considered a weak-willed being. Still, at Master Windu's word he felt an odd sense of vertigo that caused him to take a step backwards. He looked at the face of the Jedi Master that had, moments ago, been as calm as still water. He was shocked to find that the Jedi's clenched teeth were bared, and a dark fire blazed in his eyes. Chancellor Valorum felt his breath catch in his throat.

“Transparency,” hissed the Chancellor, unable to right himself from the falter. He shook himself and mustered every ounce of the politician that he could. “I am here to... _humbly_ request that the High Council choose a representative from the Jedi Order to sit on an inter-departmental triumvirate.” There was an uncomfortable stirring, and Council members shot glances at one another from across the room. Master Ki-Adi-Mundi was the first to speak.

“Jedi do not concern themselves with the political circus, Chancellor.”

The Chancellor felt no small pleasure at the discomfort he found he could cause this band of wizards. He felt his muscles relax, not having realised that they had tensed in the first place. His confidence swelled, and a toothy, politician's smile broke out across his face.

“If it will quell your fears, the triumvirate will not be a political body; merely a tool to promote transparency between the Senate, the military, and the Jedi Order.”

Mace Windu was on his feet with inhuman speed. The air in the Council chamber seemed to cool by a few degrees.

“You mean an eye on the Order to keep us in check?” Master Windu's voice was little more than a growl now. Undisguised rage showed on the Jedi's face, but this time the Chancellor scored it as a victory.

“You forget your training, Master Windu. It was my understanding that the Jedi discarded emotion.”

A small, croaking voice cut through the tension in the room.

“Convene, the Council will, and meditate on your request,” said Yoda.

Windu whirled his head to regard the aged Jedi Master, and Sadeem saw the aggression evaporate from his posture. Yoda raised one, tiny arm and gestured towards the bunta-wood doors with a small, knotted stick that he kept as a cane.

“Of course,” said the Chancellor. “I await the Council's decision with bated breath.” He bowed his head and turned towards the door, but as his hand fell on the keypad he heard Mace Windu speak. His voice was calm, and balanced once more, but there was an undeniable bite to the words.

“May the Force be with you, Chancellor.”

One of his aides waited for him outside the Jedi High Council Chambers, staring at the stone tablets that covered the walls. The tablets were unreadable to any but the most learned Jedi Master, being records from the Dark Times before humans even existed in the galaxy. The politician in him recognised the pomp and symbolism of the tablets. The message was clear: the Jedi have survived for thousands of years, and will survive for thousands more yet.

_Some of their mind tricks,_ the Chancellor thought, _are not so refined._

“It's Mecely, isn't it?” The aide jumped, clearly engrossed in his study of the tablets.

“Uh, y-yes, sir,” he stammered. “Var Mecely.”

The Chancellor hoisted his winningest smile onto his features, the one that had won him the title of Supreme Chancellor in the first place.

“Well, Var,” he said, clattering the young aide on the back, and sending him lurching forward. “Do you have word of the girl?”

“Yes, sir. She's recovering at the Grand Republic Medical Facility. The injuries she sustained were far worse than your ow-”

“Grand. Well, send an official letter of my thanks. It's not every day you save the life of the most important man in the galaxy.”

Supreme Chancellor Sadeem Valorum left Var Mecely standing in the hall as he strode away, a swagger in his step.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**3.**

The class had been small, just her and her two companions, Elise and Verla. She had been daydreaming; staring out across the dark waters at their island – wondering at how many different birds there could be on such a small spit of land – when a question had occurred to her. She raised her hand.

“Sir,” she said.

Her tutor, Vol Botter, lowered the screen he had been lecturing from. He was an imposing sight at seven-feet tall, and shod head-to-foot with grey-black fur. On a field of battle, Padme imagined people would turn and flee at the sight of him in their path, but she knew that he was really the most gentle soul – more interested in the pursuit of poetry than a frivolous thing like war. His shining black eyes fixed on the young Padme.

“Yes, Princess?”

“My father's men call the lake Na'Toh Gunga? Why?”

Vol Botter looked at her in silence for a moment, as if weighing something within her with his dark eyes. When he spoke, it was slowly, as if he were choosing each word very deliberately.

“The name comes from the old tongue of Naboo. It means 'the Gungan deadlands'.” When she clearly hadn't felt the great weight of the name in the way he had expected, he continued. “The Gungans were one of the old races of Naboo – aquatic humanoids like the Mon Calamari. Their empire beneath the oceans was unparalleled across seven systems. Vast cities of shimmering pearl and glass interconnected by the pathways of the tides – truly whimsical architecture that hasn't been seen since.”

“And the lake is a burial site for the Gungans,” reasoned Padme.

“After a fashion,” said Vol Botter. He strode to the window and stood staring out across the water. “The Gungans fancied themselves the masters of Naboo, and felt that with their vastly superior technology they should hold dominion not only over the waters, but over the lands as well.”

“War,” gasped Elise, visions of glory and triumphs no doubt flashing through her mind.

“War,” agreed Vol Botter. “A bloody and awful thing that saw the world torn to shreds. Here at Na'Toh Gunga is where the humans made their final stand against the Gungan hordes. There were few left at that stage, perhaps ten thousand or so, but what they lacked in numbers they made up for in strategy. Padme, do you know why your family made their home in this valley?”

She thought for a moment, and focused intensely on a thing that her father had told her when she was much younger, her brow knit in concentration.

“Because this is the single most defensible position on the planet,” she repeated by rote.

Vol Botter smiled at her, showing a shock of white teeth against black gums.

“That's correct. The valley has one entrance, which has since been fashioned into the procession gate. The mountains at every side form a sort of shield wall. An army scaling those mountains could take a month just to reach the summit. The humans of Naboo entered the valley and bombarded the mountains in their wake, closing up the passage. This left the Gungans two choices – spend their armies on the slopes of the mountains, or find a quicker route to the humans.”

“The lake,” Verla exclaimed, as though she had found the solution to a particularly vexing maths problem. She pushed her stylus into her mess of tightly-curled, black hair, and as it disappeared she straightened in her seat, focusing her voracious mind on her tutor's words.

“That's right,” said Vol Botter, slowly nodding. “As I said, the Gungans were an aquatic race. They knew the waters of this world better than we know the lands even now. They knew that the lake was fed by a series of subterranean tunnels, and they decided that a swift end to the war was preferable to the exhaustion and destruction of morale they would suffer in scaling the mountains. In hindsight, I dare say they would chance the climb.”

“So, they swam in through the lake,” said Elise, pushing her short, blonde hair back behind her ears, it was something that she often did whenever she was growing impatient for the fighting to start. She was a natural fighter, and had been chosen for the honour of sparring with the Princess Amidala at a very young age. She had speed, and unnatural strength for her size, but the thing that made her most dangerous was her ability to adapt. She didn't lose, she learned.

“Well, that was the plan,” continued Vol Botter. He was invested in the telling of the story now, caught up in the rhythm, and the give-and-take of the thing. Padme saw this in the way he gestured, in his wide eyes, and the quickening of his speech. “Of course, the humans were not as inept as they had led the Gungans to believe. It is basic strategy that when you are at your weakest, you should make your opponent think you at your most strong, and vice-versa.”

“I bet they were ready and waiting when those Gungans poked their head out of the water,” said Elise, positively bouncing in her seat now.

“They never got that far,” said Vol Botter. “The humans poisoned the lake.”

“What?” Elise stopped, mid-bounce.

“Yes, a particularly nasty neurotoxin. The effects were quite ghastly. They had no way of knowing, you see. No way of reporting back to the others that anything was amiss. They'd been throwing wave after wave of troops through the tunnels before anyone thought that perhaps the siege was taking a little too long.”

Verla's dark skin had grown very pale, Elise looked as though she were going to vomit. Padme was shocked to her core. That her people, her family, could do something so underhanded – even acting in desperation – felt completely alien to her. It felt like some dark, squirming worm burrowing its way into her heart.

“Padme?” Vol Botter was at her side. He placed one large, warm hand on her cheek and wiped something away with a black, furry thumb. “You're crying.”

“I'm sorry.” Her voice was much quieter than she'd intended.

“No. It's I that am sorry,” said Botter. “It wasn't my place to -”

“If not my teacher, then who?” Her voice was much stronger this time, the diplomat's modal tones. Vol Botter smiled sadly down at her, before addressing Elise and Verla.

“I'm afraid I've somewhat overstepped my syllabus, and told you something that would have been better saved for another day. Please, take the rest of the day to yourselves. Enjoy the sunshine. Try not to dwell on what you've heard today.”

With the unrestrained enthusiasm of youth escaping authority, Elise and Verla had sprinted from the classroom, hurling thanks back over their shoulders. Padme took her time collecting her things, before making her way to her teacher's desk at the front of the classroom. Vol Botter had collapsed into his worn chair, and was shading his eyes with one hand. She placed a hand on his shoulder, feeling the taut muscles straining beneath the fur.

“It is better that I know,” she said. “Thank you.”

She left the classroom to catch up with her companions.

 

The sand at the shoreline had tickled against the balls of her feet; it had compacted beneath her weight as she flung herself towards the water, shedding layer after layer of the thick, ceremonial garbs she was forced to wear in school.

Elise and Verla had squealed in shock, and delight as the frigid water lapped against their bare ankles.

The sudden chill that she felt crawl along her spine had made her skid to a halt an inch from the water, raking up deep furrows in the wet sand.

“Wait,” she said, but for the second time that day she found her voice had been robbed of its strength. Elise dived, breaking the placid surface of the water that looked to Padme just like black glass.

“Padme, come on!” Verla had turned to wave her friend on, then she too turned and dived into the eerie water.

“No!”

They'd made the swim across the lake a hundred times before – a thousand, maybe – without incident. They would race to the island at its centre, then lie in the sand and try to guess the names of the birds. Verla was always the best at the game, able to not only distinguish the sounds but mimic them with such accuracy that the birds would flock from the trees at her call.

The ground lurched beneath her feet, and though she fought to stay standing she was spilled to her knees.

It was the briefest moment. It could have gone unrecorded in the long history of the Galaxy if it hadn't been for the way that it had irrevocably changed the life of one girl standing alone at the water's edge on an otherwise unremarkable trade planet.

Elise's blonde hair crowned from the dark wake first. Then Verla, her tight curls loosening under the influence of the water, crawling out in ethereal tendrils away from her head. It was so hard to see where her black hair ended, and the water began.

She knew they were dead without needing any physical evidence. She could simply feel their absence in the world around her.

She pulled herself up from the ground and walked on unsteady feet to the shore. She stood at the very edge of the water, and watched her dead friends floating just out of her reach.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**4.**

Her eyes snapped open. Even through the haze of the bacta, and its sting in her eyes, she could see her Master through the glass of the tank. He was sat in front of the tank, slumped forward with his head in his hands.

She kicked off against the bottom of the tank, and pulled herself free of the viscous goo. It tugged at her briefly, adding unfamiliar weight to her limbs. She sat on the edge, and collected her thoughts as she watched her feet languidly kicking back-and-forth, tracing short-lived divets in the warm bacta. As she raised a hand to the respirator that covered her nose and mouth, a spindly droid arm slapped her hand out of the way. It stung like a strike from a cane, and Padme pulled her hand close to her chest, and rubbed at the reddening mark with a look of indignation at the artificial thing.

The droid appendage attached itself to the respirator, gave a complex little twist and jerk, and the whole thing came away trailing a length of tubing. She gagged as the tubing was pulled from her throat, but steeled herself against vomiting. Vomiting with a tube in your throat seemed like something that would end very messy for all parties involved.

When she looked down at Obi-Wan he was, of course, watching her intently. He had leapt to his feet as she had broken the surface of the bacta, and now he was wringing his hands together in a fretful way that seemed unbecoming of the Jedi Master. When the respirator had been removed totally, she hopped down from the gangway that surrounded the lip of the tank. She landed beside him, her bare feet making a wet  _ thwap  _ against the plasteel floor of the medibay.

He scooped her up in a tight embrace, that told her just how close to death she must have been.

“Master, please.”

He loosened his grip on her and pushed her to arms length by her shoulders.

“I'm sorry, Padme,” he said. Something shifted in his features, and suddenly tears were spilling from his eyes. Padme looked down at her feet to spare him embarrassment. “I'm more sorry than you will ever know.”

“Master, you're crying.”

His face screwed up as if to shield him from his own emotions.

“By The Force, I'm sorry,” he said, swiping at his eyes with the loose sleeve of his robes. Even with her eyes averted, she could sense the frantic energy within him as he tried to compose himself. She had never been privy to Obi-Wan’s emotions before, he kept his defences high around everyone. She chanced a glance at him, hoping to catch this brief moment of vulnerability, but now he was suddenly as still as the surface of a lake that she had once stood by as a child. “I will not lose anyone else, Padme.”

He meant it. She could see how closely to his heart he held that one fact. He rested his life atop it. But she also saw, with the perfect clarity provided by an outside perspective, how shaky that foundation was. Because it was something that he had no control over, Jedi Master or not. Who lived, and who died, these were things decided only by The Force. And though the Jedi were capable of great acts of directing and diverting the torrent of The Force, eventually it was always the will of The Force that won through.

She raised a hand to his cheek, and the bristles of his sandy beard both scratched and tickled her palm at the same instant.

“Obi-Wan,” she said, and his face curled up in a bittersweet smile. Whatever reaction she had been expecting from him, this had not been it, and she suddenly found herself thrown off-balance.

“That was what he called me,” he said.

“What?”

“Qui-Gon. That was his name for me.”

This threw her even further off-kilter. Obi-Wan was well-known for his ability with mind tricks, was perhaps the most adept Jedi Master alive in changing peoples’ minds with words, and Padme could see why now. The way he flitted from thought-to-thought, emotion-to-emotion, kept your footing unsteady in any conversation with him, leaving him room to sneak a thought into your mind that you were certain was your own.

“His name for you?”

“Yes,” he said. “It was a custom among his people. They called it the 'Heart Naming'. The name Qui-Gon came from one of their old scriptures, it meant 'Bringer of the Word'.”

She was beginning to find her footing at last, and let herself fall into the call-and-response rhythm of the conversation.

“What about Obi-Wan? What does that mean?”

“It means...” Obi-Wan faltered for a moment. Padme saw his lower lip quiver, and his head slump forward just enough to shield his eyes from her.  “It means 'A Gift to the Father.'”

His shoulder's began to shake. He gave a strangled gulping noise, then a short, sharp sniff. Padme reached out and raised his chin with the edge of her finger until they were looking into one another's eyes; his crystalline blue locked with her hazel brown.

“What would my heart name be?”

He only smiled at her, a smile filled with such despair. She wondered if he'd led her to this moment in some way that she hadn't been able to follow.

“The fact that you would have one at all is why we're even here, my young padawan.”

Despite the chill of the bacta slowly evaporating from the surface of her skin, Padme suddenly felt a flush of embarrassed heat that burned most particularly in her cheeks. She was the one to turn away this time. She'd never been comfortable with overt displays of affection, had never received them from her own parents. The fact that this display came from a Jedi Knight, whose emotions were supposed to be guarded to the point of aloofness, made Padme feel like she was experiencing something raw and taboo. There was a long, tense moment where the air felt as though it had somehow thickened around her, then Obi-Wan spoke again his voice was quiet.

“I won't apologise for my feelings; Qui-Gon never did. I understand that they may be unbecoming of my station, but I also know that the Force moves in peculiar ways.”

“What was your name?” She blurted the question as she span on her heel to look at him. A clumsy deflection. One corner of his mouth curled up in a half-smile, and she realised that he saw it for what it was. He was the perennial teacher, after all. When he looked into her eyes she saw relief there.

“Ben.”

“Ben Kenobi,” she said. “Old Ben. It suits you.”

  
  



End file.
